I tould you afore, was dark an' didn't well know who was playin,' was
in grate delight; an' whin he hard that it was a little
_prechaun_,[601] not aight years ould, that nivir seen a set of pipes
in all his days afore, he wished the mother joy iv her son; offered to
take him aff her han's iv she'd part wid him, swore he was a born
piper, a nath'ral jainus, an' declared that in a little time more, wid
the help uv a little good tachein' frum himsilf, there wouldn't be his
match in the whole counthry round. The poor woman was grately
delighted to hear all this, particklarly as what Tim sed about
nath'ral jainises put an ind to some misgivin's that war risin' in hur
mind, laist what the naybours sed about his not bein' right might be
only too thrue; an' it gratified hur too to think that her dear child
(for she raely loved the whelp) wouldn't be forced to turn out an'
big, but might airn dacent, honest bread fur himsilf. So whin Miek
come home in the evenin' frum his work, she up an' she tould him all
that happined, an' all that Tim Carrol sed; an Mick, as was nath'ral,
was very glad to hear it, for the helpless condition o' the poor
crather was a grate throuble to him; so nixt fair-day he tuk the pig
to the fair of Naas, and wid what it brought he whipt up, the nixt
holiday that come, to Dublin, an' bespoke a bran new set o' pipes o'
the proper size fur him, an' the nixt time Tom Doolan wint up wid the
cars, in about a fortnight after, the pipes come home, an' the minnit
the chap in the cradle laid eyes on thim, he squealed wid delight, an'
threw up his purty legs, an' bumped himsilf in his cradle, an' wint an
wid a grate many comical thricks; till at last, to quite him, they gev
him the pipes, an' immajetly he set to an' pulled away at "Jig
Polthog," to th' admirashin uv all that hard him.
Well, the fame uv his skill an the pipes soon spread far an' near, for
there wasn't a piper in the nixt three counties cud come near him at
all, in Ould Maudha Roo, or the Hare in the Corn, or The Fox Hunther's
Jig, or The Piper's Maggot, or any uv the fine ould Irish jigs, that
make people dance whether they will or no: an' it was surprisin' to hear
him rattle away The Fox Hunt; you'd raaly think you hard the hounds
givin' tongue, an' the tarriers yelpin' always behind, an' the huntsman
an' the whippers-in cheerin' or correctin' the dogs; it was, in short,
the very nixt thing to seein' the hunt itself. The best uv him was, he
was no way stingy uv his music, an' many's the merry dance the boys an'
the girls o' the neighbourhood used to hav' in his father's cabin; an'
he'd play up music fur thim that, they sed, used, as it wor, to put
quicksilver in their feet; an' they all declared they nivir moved so
light an' so airy to any piper's playin' that ivir they danced to.
But besides all his fine Irish music, he had one quare chune uv his own,
the oddest that iver was hard; fur the minnit he begun to play it
iverything in the house seemed disposed to dance; the plates an'
porringers used to jingle an the dhresser, the pots an' pot-hooks used
to rattle in the chimbley, an' people used even to fancy they felt the
stools movin' frum undher thim; but, howiver it might be wid the stools,
it is sartin that no one cud keep long sittin' an them, fur both ould
and young always fell to caperin' as hard as ivir they cud. The girls
complained that whin he begun this chune it always threw thim out in
their dancin', an' that they nivir cud handle their feet rightly, fur
they felt the flure like ice undher thim, an' thimsilves ready iviry
minnit to come sprawlin' an their backs or their faces; the young
bachelors that wanted to show aff their dancin' an' their new pumps, an'
their bright red or green an' yellow garthers, swore that it confused
thim so that they cud nivir go rightly through the heel-and-toe, or
cover-the-buckle, or any uv their best steps, but felt thimsilves always
bedizzied an' bewildhered, au' thin ould an' young id go jostlin' an'
knockin' together in a frightful manner an' whin the anlooky brat had
thim all in this way whirligiggin' about the flure, he'd grin an' he'd
chuckle an' he'd chather, jist fur all the world like Jocko, the monkey,
whin he's played off sum uv his roguery.[602]
The oulder he grew the worse he grew, an' by the time he was noine
year ould there was no stannin' the house for him; he was always
makin' his brothers burn or scald thimsilves, or brake their shins
ovir the pots an' stools. One time in harvist, he was left at home by
himself, an' whin his mother come in she found the cat a-horseback on
the dog wid hur face to the tail, an' hur legs tied round him, an' the
urchin playin' his quare chune to thim, so that the dog wint barking
an jumpin' about, an' puss was miowin' fur the dear life, an' slappin'
her tail backwards an' forwards, which whin it id hit agin the dog's
chaps, he'd snap at it an' bite it, an' thin there was the philliloo.
Another time the farmer Mick worked wid, a mighty dacint kind uv a
man, happened to call in, an' Judy wiped a stool wid her apron an'
axed him to sit down an rest himself afther his walk. He was sittin'
wid his back to the cradle, an' behind him was a pan o' blood, fur
Judy was makin' hog's puddin's; the lad lay quite still in his nist,
an' watched his opportunity till he got ready a hook at the ind uv a
piece o' packthread an' he conthrived to fling it so handy that it
cotcht in the bob o' the man's nice new wig, an' soused it in the pan
o' blood. Another time his mother was comin' in from milkin' the cow,
wid the pail an her head, an' the very minnit he saw her, he lilted up
his infernal chune, an' the poor woman lettin' go the pail, clapped
her hands aside an' begun to dance a jig, an' tumbled the milk all
atop uv her husband, who was bringin' in some turf to bile the supper.
In short there id be no ind to tellin' all his pranks, an' all the
mischievyous tricks he played.
Soon afther, some mischances begun to happen to the farmer's cattle; a
horse tuk the staggers, a fine vale calf died o' the black-lig, an' some
uv his sheep o' the rid wather; the cows begun to grow vicious, an' to
kick down the milkpails, an' the roof o' one ind o' the barn fell in;
an' the farmer tuk it into his head that Mick Flannagan's onlooky child
was the cause uv all the mischief. So, one day, he called Mick aside,
an' sed to him, "Mick," sez he, "you see things are not goin' on wid me
as they ought to go; an' to be plain an' honest wid you, Mick, I think
that child o' yours is the cause uv it. I am raaly fallin' away to
nothin', wid frettin', an' I can hardly sleep an my bed at night for
thinkin' o' what may happen afore the mornin'. So I'd be glad af you'd
luk out fur work somewhare else; you're as good a man as any in the
whole counthry, there's no denyin' it, an' there's no fear but you'll
have yer choice o' work." To this Mick med answer, and sed, "that he was
sorry indeed for his losses, and still sorrier that he or his shud be
thought to be the cause o' thim; that, for his own part, he wasn't quite
aisy in his mind about that child, but he had him, an' so he must keep
him;" an' he promised to luk out fur another place immajetly.
So nixt Sunday at chapil, Mick gev out that he was about lavin' the
work at John Riordan's, an' immajetly a farmer, who lived a couple o'
miles aff, an' who wanted a ploughman (the last one havin' jist left
him), come up to Mick, an' offered him a house an' garden, an' work
all the year round. Mick, who knew him to be a good employer,
immajetly closed wid him. So it was agreed that the farmer shud sind
his car to take his little bit o' furniture, an' that he shud remove
an the following Thursday.
Whin Thursday come, the car come accordin' to promise, an' Mick loaded
it, an' put the cradle wid the child an' his pipes an the top, an' Judy
sat beside it to take care uv him, laste he shud tumble out an' be kilt;
they druv the cow afore thim, the dog follied; but the cat, uv coorse,
was lift behind: an' the other three childer wint along the road,
pickin' haves and blackberries; for it was a fine day towst the latther
ind uv harvist. They had to crass a river; but as it run through the
bottom between two high banks, you didn't see it till you wor close up
an it. The young fellow was lyin' purty quite in the bottom o' the
cradle, till they come to the head o' the bridge, whin hearin' the
roarin' o' the wather (for there was a grate flood in the river, as
there was heavy rain for the last two or three days), he sot up in his
cradle, an' luked about him; an' the minnit he got a sight ov the
wather, an' found they wor goin' to take him acrass it, oh! how he did
bellow, an' how he did squeal. "Whisht, alanna," sed Judy, "there's no
fear o' yer; shure it's only ovir the stone bridge we're goin'." "Bad
luck to yer, ye ould rip," sez he, "what a purty thrick yuv played me,
to bring me here;" an' he still wint an yellin', and the farther they
got an the bridge, the loudher he yelled; till at last Mick cud hould
out no longer; so givin' him a skelp o' the whip he had in his han',
"Divil choke you, you crukked brat," sez he; "will you nivir stop
bawlin'? a body can't hear their ears for you." Well, my dear, the
instant minnit he felt the thong o' the whip, he jumped up in the
cradle, clapped the pipes undher his arm, an' lept clane ovir the
battlemints o' the bridge down into the wather. "Oh, my child! my
child!" shouted Judy; "he's clane gone for ivir frum me." Mick an' the
rest o' the childher run to the other side o' the bridge an' lukt down,
an' they seen him comin' out from undher the arch o' the bridge, sittin'
crass-liggs an the top uv a big white-headed wave, an' playin' away an
the pipes, jist as if nothin' had happened at all. The river was runnin'
very hard, so he was whirled away at a grate rate; but he played away as
fast, ay, and faster nor the river run. They set aff as hard as they cud
along the bank; but as the river med a suddint turn round the hill,
about a hundred yards below the bridge, by the time they got there he
was out o' sight, an' no one ivir led eyes an him sence; but the gineral
belief is, that he wint home wid the pipes to his own relations--the
good people--to make music fur thim.
_The Soul Cages._
Jack Dogherty lived on the coast of the county Clare. Jack was a
fisherman, as his father and his grandfather before him had been. Like
them, too, he lived all alone (but for the wife), and just in the same
spot, too. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond
of that wild situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the
midst of huge scattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look
upon. But they had their own good reasons for it.
The place was just, in short, the only spot on that part of the coast
where anybody could well live; there was a neat little creek, where a
boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this
creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now, when the
Atlantic, according to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good
westerly wind was blowing strong on the coast, many's the richly-laden
ship that went to pieces on these rocks; and then the fine bales of
cotton and tobacco, and such like things; and the pipes of wine, and
the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and the kegs of
Hollands that used to come ashore. Why, bless you! Dunbeg Bay was just
like a little estate to the Doghertys.
Not but that they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever
one had the good luck to get to land; and many a time, indeed, did
Jack put out in his little _corragh_, that would breast the billows
like any gannet, to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from a
wreck. But when the ship was gone to pieces, and the crew were all
lost, who would blame Jack for _picking_ up all he could find? "And
who's the worse of it?" said he. "For as to the king, God bless him!
everybody knows he's rich enough already, without gettin' what's
floatin' in the say."
Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly fellow. No other,
sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy Mahony to quit her father's snug and
warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles
off to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls for her next
door neighbours. But Biddy knew what's what, and she knew that Jack was
the man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy; for, to say
nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen's
houses of the country with the Godsends that came into the bay. And she
was right in her choice, for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or
made a prouder appearance at Chapel on Sundays than Mrs. Dogherty.
Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many
a strange sound did he hear, but nothing daunted him. So far was he
from being afraid of Merrows, or such like beings, that the very first
wish of his heart was fairly to meet with one. Jack had heard that
they were mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out of
an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the
Merrows moving along the face of the waters in their robes of mist,
but he made direct for them; and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own
quiet way, bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and
bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was
after.
It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place where
the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right
view of one. What vexed him more was, that both his father and
grandfather had often and often seen them; and he even remembered
hearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the
family that had settled down at the Creek, had been so intimate with a
Merrow, that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had
him stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well
know how to believe.
Fortune at length began to think that it was only right that Jack
should know as much as his father and grandfather knew. Accordingly,
one day, when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the
coast to the northward, just as he was turning a point, he saw
something, like to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a
rock at a little distance out to sea: it looked green in the body, as
well as he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn,
only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in his hand.
Jack stood, for a good half hour, straining his eyes and wondering at
it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last
Jack's patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a
hail, when the Merrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat
on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.
Jack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps
toward the point; still he could never get a glimpse of the
sea-gentleman with the cocked hat; and with thinking and thinking about
the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One
very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high, Jack
determined to give a look at the Merrow's rock, (for he had always
chosen a fine day before,) and then he saw the strange thing cutting
capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming
up, and then diving down again. Jack had now only to choose his time,
(that is, a good blowing day,) and he might see the man of the sea as
often as he pleased. All this, however, did not satisfy him,--"much will
have more;"--he wished now to get acquainted with the Merrow, and even
in this he succeeded. One tremendous blustery day, before he got to the
point whence he had a view of the Merrow's rock, the storm came on so
furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves
which are so numerous along the coast, and there, to his astonishment,
he saw, sitting before him, a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a
red nose, and pig's eyes. It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on
them, and short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked
hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about
something. Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now or
never, thought he; so up he went boldly to the cogitating fish-man, took
off his hat, and made his best bow.
"Your sarvint, sir," said Jack.--"Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty,"
answered the Merrow.--"To be shure, thin, how well your honour knows my
name," said Jack.--"Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why, man,
I knew your grandfather long before he was married to Judy Regan, your
grandmother. Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours; he
was a mighty worthy man in his time. I never met his match above or
below, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope, my
boy," said the old fellow, "I hope you're his own grandson."--"Never
fear me for that," said Jack; "if my mother only reared me on brandy,
'tis myself that 'ud be a suckin infant to this hour."--"Well, I like to
hear you talk so manly; you and I must be better acquainted, if it were
only for your grandfather's sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was
not the thing; he had no head at all, not he."--"I'm shure," said Jack,
"sense your honour lives down undher the wather, you must be obleeged to
dhrink a power to keep any hate in you, at all at all, in such a cruel,
damp, cowld place. Well, I often hard of Christhens dhrinkin' like
fishes;--and might I be so bould as to ax where you get the
sperits?"--"Where do you get them yourself, Jack?" said the Merrow, with
a knowing look.--"Hubbubboo," cries Jack, "now I see how it is; but I
suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dhry cellar below to keep them
in."--"Let me alone for that," said the Merrow, with another knowing
look.--"I'm shure," continued Jack, "it must be mighty well worth the
luking at."--"You may say that, Jack, with your own pretty mouth," said
the Merrow; "and if you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of
the day, we will have a little more talk with one another about the
matter."
Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world; and on
Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the
Merrow had two cocked hats with him, one under each arm. "Might I make
so bould as to ask you, sir," said Jack, "why yer honour brought the
two hats wid you to-day? You wouldn't, shure, be goin' to giv' me one
o' them, to keep for the curosity of the thing?"--"No, no, Jack," said
he, "I don't get my hats so easily, to part with them that way; but I
want you to come down and eat a bit of dinner with me, and I brought
you the hat to dive with."--"The Lord bless and presarve us!" cried
Jack, in amazement, "would you want me to go down to the bottom of the
salt say ocean? Shure I'd be smoothered and choked up wid the wather,
to say nothin' of bein' dhrownded! And what would poor Biddy do for
me, and what would she say?"--"And what matter what she says, you
pinkeen you? Who cares for Biddy's squalling? It's long before your
grandfather would have talked in that way. Many's the time he stuck
that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly after me, and many's
the snug bit of dinner, and good shellful of brandy, he and I had
together, below under the water."--"Is it raally, sir, and no joke?"
said Jack; "why, thin, sorra' be from me for ivir and a day afther, if
I'll be a bit a worse man nor my grandfather was! So here goes; but
play me fair now. Here's nick or nothin'!" cried Jack.--"That's your
grandfather all over," said the old fellow. "So come along, my boy,
and do as I do."
They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece
until they got to the rock. The Merrow climbed to the top of it, and
Jack followed him. On the far side it was as straight as the wall of a
house, and the sea looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.
"Now, do you see, Jack," said the Merrow, "just put this hat on your
head, and mind to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail, and
follow after me, and you'll see what you'll see." In he dashed, and in
dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they went, and Jack
thought they'd never stop going. Many a time did he wish himself
sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy; yet, where was the use of
wishing now, when he was so many miles as he thought below the waves
of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the Merrow's tail, slippery as
it was. And, at last, to Jack's great surprise, they got out of the
water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the bottom of the
sea. They landed just in front of a nice little house that was slated
very neatly with oyster-shells; and the Merrow, turning about to Jack,
welcomed him down. Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what
with being out of breath with travelling so fast through the water. He
looked about him, and could see no living things, barring crabs and
lobsters, of which there were plenty walking leisurely about on the
sand. Overhead was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds
swimming about in it.
"Why don't you speak, man?" said the Merrow: "I dare say you had no
notion that I had such a snug little concern as this? Are you
smothered, or choked, or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy,
eh?" "Oh! not mysilf, indeed," said Jack, showing his teeth with a
good-humoured grin, "but who in the world 'ud ivir ha' thought uv
seein' sich a thing?" "Well, come along my lad, and let's see what
they've got for us to eat?"
Jack was really hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure to perceive a
fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was going
on within. Into the house he followed the Merrow, and there he saw a
good kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a noble
dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Merrows cooking.
His host then led him into the _room_, which was furnished shabbily
enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it; nothing but planks and
logs of wood to sit on, and eat off. There was, however, a good fire
blazing on the hearth--a comfortable sight to Jack. "Come, now, and I'll
show you where I keep--you know what," said the Merrow, with a sly look;
and opening a little door, he led Jack into a fine long cellar, well
filled with pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels. "What do you
say to that, Jack Dogherty?--Eh!--May-be a body can't live snug down
under the water!" "The divil the doubt of that," said Jack, "anyhow."
They went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no
table-cloth, to be sure--but what matter? It was not always Jack had
one at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first
house in the county on a fast-day. The choicest of fish, and no
wonder, was there. Turbots, and soles, and lobsters, and oysters, and
twenty other kinds, were on the planks at once, and plenty of foreign
spirits. The wines, the old fellow said, were too cold for his
stomach. Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then, taking up
a shell of brandy, "Here's to your honour's good health, sir," said
he, "though beggin' your pardon, its mighty odd, that as long as we're
acquainted, I don't know your name yit." "That's true, Jack," replied
he; "I never thought of it before, but better late than never. My name
is Coomara." "Coomara! And a mighty dacint sort of a name it is, too,"
cried Jack, taking another shellful: "here's, then, to your good
health, Coomara, and may you live these fifty years." "Fifty years!"
repeated Coomara; "I'm obliged to you, indeed; if you had said five
hundred, it would have been something worth wishing." "By the laws,
sir," said Jack, "yez live to a powerful great age here undher the
wather! Ye knew my grandfather, and he's dead and gone betther nor
sixty years. I'm shure it must be a mighty healthy place to live in."
"No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring."
Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding surprise, he
found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the sea
being over them, which kept their noddles cool. Old Coomara got
exceedingly comfortable, and sang several songs; but Jack, if his life
had depended on it, never could remember any of them. At length said
he to Jack, "Now, my dear boy, if you follow me, I'll show you my
curosities!" He opened a little door, and led Jack into a large room,
where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up
at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention, however, were
things like lobster-pots, ranged on the ground along the wall.
"Well, Jack, how do you like my curosities?" said old Coo. "Upon my
sowkins, sir," said Jack, "they're mighty well worth the lukin' at;
but might a body make so bould as to ax what thim things like
lobster-pots are?" "Oh, the soul-cages, is it?" "The what, sir?"
"These things here that I keep the souls in." "Arrah! what sowls,
sir?" said Jack in amazement: "shure the fish ha' got no sowls in
them?" "Oh, no," replied Coo, quite coolly, "that they haven't; but
these are the souls of drowned sailors." "The Lord presarve us from
all harm!" muttered Jack, "how in the world did you conthrive to get
thim?" "Easily enough. I've only when I see a good storm coming on, to
set a couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are
drowned, and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor
things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold; so
they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and
fetch them home, and keep them here dry and warm; and is it not well
for them, poor souls, to get into such good quarters?"
Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say, so he said
nothing. They went back into the dining-room, and had some more
brandy, which was excellent, and then, as Jack knew that it must be
getting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he
thought it was time for him to be on the road.
"Just as you like, Jack," said Coo, "but take a _doch an durrus_ before
you go; you've a cold journey before you." Jack knew better manners than
to refuse the parting glass. "I wondher" said he, "will I ivir be able
to make out my way home." "What should ail you," said Coo, "when I show
you the way?" Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one of
the cocked hats, and put it on Jack's head the wrong way, and then
lifted him up on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the
water. "Now," says he, giving him a heave, "you'll come up just in the
same spot you came down in; and, Jack, mind and throw me back the hat."
He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble--whirr,
whirr, whiz--away he went up through the water, till he came to the very
rock he had jumped off, where he found a landing-place, and then in he
threw the hat, which sunk like a stone.
The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer's
evening. The evening star was seen brightly twinkling in the cloudless
heaven, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of
light. So Jack, perceiving it was getting late, set off home; but when
he got there, not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had spent his
day.
The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots, gave Jack a
great deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal
of thought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the
matter; but what could the priest do, and what did Coo care for the
priest? Besides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not
think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him too, and it
also might not be much to his own credit if it were known that he used
to go dine with the Merrows under the sea. On the whole, he thought
his best plan would be to ask Coo to dinner, and to make him drunk, if
he was able, and then to take the hat and go down and turn up the
pots. It was first of all necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the
way; for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish to keep
the thing secret from her.
Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to
Biddy, that he thought it would be for the good of both their souls if
she was to go and take her rounds at Saint John's Well, near Ennis.
Biddy thought so too, and accordingly off she set one fine morning at
day dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The
coast being clear, away then went Jack to the rock to give the
appointed signal to Coomara, which was, throwing a big stone into the
water; Jack threw, and up sprang Coo. "Good morrow, Jack," said he;
"what do you want with me?" "Jist nothin' at all to spake about, sir,"
replied Jack; "only to come and take pot-luck wid me, now that Biddy's
out of the way; if I might make so free as to ax you, an' shure it's
myself that's afther doin' so." "It's quite agreeable, Jack, I assure
you; what's your hour?" "Any time that's most convenient to yoursilf,
sir: say one o'clock, that you may go home, if you wish it, wid the
daylight." "I'll be with you," said Coo, "never fear me."
Jack went home and dressed a noble fish dinner, and got out plenty of
his best foreign spirits, enough for that matter to make twenty men
drunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm.
Dinner was ready; they sat down, and ate and drank manfully. Jack
thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old Coo well with
brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the table,
but poor Jack forgot that he had not the sea over his own head now to
keep it cool. The brandy got into it and did his business for him, and
Coo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a
Good Friday.
Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way.
"'Tis no use at all for me thinkin' to make that ould Rapperee dhrunk,"
said Jack; "an' how in this world can I help the poor sowls out o' the
lobster pots." After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck
him. "I have it," said he, slapping his thigh; "I'll be bail Coo nivir
saw a dhrop o' raal potyeen as ould as he is, an' that's the thing to
settle him! Och! thin isn't it well that Biddy won't be home these two
days yit; I can have another twist at him." Jack asked Coo again, and
Coo laughed at him for having no better head; telling him, he'd never
come up to his grandfather. "Well, but thry me agin," said Jack, "and
I'll be bail to dhrink you dhrunk and sober, and dhrunk agin."--"Any
thing in my power," said Coo, "to oblige you."
All this dinner, Jack took care to have his own liquor watered, and to
give the strongest brandy he had to Coo. At last, says he, "Pray, sir,
did you ivir dhrink any potyeen? any raal mountain-jew?"--"No," says
Coo; "what's that, and where does it come from?"--"Oh! that's a sacret,"
said Jack, "but it's the right stuff; nivir believe me agin if it isn't
fifty times better nor brandy or rum either. Biddy's brother jist sint
me a prisent of a little dhrop, in exchange for some brandy, and as
you're an ould frind o' the family, I kep it to thrate you wid."--"Well,
let's see what sort of thing it is," said Coo.
The potyeen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had the real
smack on it. Coo was delighted with it; he drank and he sang, and he
laughed and he danced, till he fell on the floor fas' asleep. Then Jack,
who had taken good care to keep himself sober, snapt up the cocked hat,
ran off to the rock, leaped in, and soon arrived at Coo's habitation.
All was as still as a churchyard at midnight--not a Merrow young or
old, was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did he
see, only he heard, he thought, a sort of a little whistle or chirp as
he raised each of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected
what the priest had often said, that nobody living could see the soul,
no more than they could see the wind or the air. Having now done all
he could do for them he set the pots as they were before, and sent a
blessing after the poor souls to speed them on their journey wherever
they were going. He now began to think of returning; he put on the hat
(as was right,) the wrong way; but when he got out, he found the water
so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up into it
now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift. He walked about
looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock was
there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower
than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to
it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump and
caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and
pulled Jack up. The minute the hat touched the water, pop away Jack
was whisked; and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that
he forgot to let go, up with him tail foremost. He got to the rock in
no time, and without a moment's delay hurried home rejoicing in the
good deed he had done. But, meanwhile, there was fine work at home;
for our friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing
expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one to the well.
When she entered the house and saw the things lying _thrie-na heelah_
on the table before her--"Here's a purty job," said she, "that
blackguard of mine--what ill-luck I had ivir to marry him--he's picked
up some vagabone or other, while I was prayin' for the good of his
sowl; and they've bin dhrinkin' up all the potyeen that my own brother
gev' him, and all the sperits, to be shure, that he was to have sould
to his honour." Then hearing an outlandish kind of grunt, she looked
down and saw Coomara lying under the table. "The blessed Vargin help
an' save me," shouted she, "if he hasn't made a rael baste of himself.
Well, well, well to be shure, I often hard till of a man makin' a
baste of himself wid dhrink, but I niver saw it afore! Oh hone, oh
hone,--Jack, honey, what 'ill I do wid you, or what 'ill I do widout
you? How can any dacint woman ivir think of livin' wid a baste?"
With such like lamentations, Biddy rushed out of the house, and was
going, she knew not where, when she heard the well known voice of
Jack, singing a merry tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and
sound, and not turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor
flesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all; and Biddy, though she had
half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned
that he had done a great service to the poor souls. Back they both
went most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Coomara; and
perceiving the old fellow to be rather dull, he bid him not be cast
down, for 'twas many a good man's case; said it all came of his not
being used to the potyeen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to
swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed to think
he had had quite enough: he got up, quite out of sorts, and without
having the good manners to say one word in the way of civility, he
sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water.
Coomara never missed the souls. He and Jack continued the best friends
in the world; and no one, perhaps, ever equalled Jack at freeing souls
from purgatory; for he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the
house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow; and then turned up the
pots, and let out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure, that he could
never see them; but as he knew the thing to be impossible, he was
obliged to be satisfied. Their intercourse continued for several
years. However, one morning, on Jack's throwing in a stone, as usual,
he got no answer. He flung another, and another; still there was no
reply. He went away, and returned the next morning; but it was to no
purpose. As he was without the hat, he could not go down to see what
had become of old Coo; but his belief was, that the old man, or the
old fish, or whatever he was, had either died, or had removed away
from that part of the country.[603]
_Barry of Cairn Thierna._
Fermoy, though now so pretty and so clean a town, was once as poor and
as dirty a village as any in Ireland. It had neither barracks, nor
church, nor school, nor anything to admire. Two-storied houses were
but few: its street (for it had but one) was chiefly formed of
miserable mud cabins; nor was the fine scenery around sufficient to
induce the traveller to tarry in its paltry, dirty inn, beyond the
limits actually required.
In those days it happened that a regiment of foot was proceeding from
Dublin to Cork. One company, which left Caher in the morning, had,
with 'toilsome march,' passed through Mitchelstown, tramped across the
Kilworth mountains; and, late of an October evening, tired and hungry,
reached Fermoy, the last stage but one to their quarters. No barracks,
as we have said, were then built there to relieve them; and every
voice was raised, calling to the gaping villagers for the name and
residence of the billet-master.
"Why, thin, can't ye be aisy, now, and let a body tell you," said one.
"Shure, thin, how can I answer you all at onst," said another. "Anan!"
cried a third, affecting not to understand the sergeant, who addressed
him. "Is it Mr. Consadine you want?" replied a fourth, answering, _à l'
Irlandaise_, the question, by asking another. "Bad luck to the whole
breed and seed of the sogers!" muttered a fifth villager, between his
teeth. "It's come to ate poor people that work for their bread, out of
house and home, yez are?" "Whisht, Teigue, can't you, now?" said his
neighbour, jogging the last speaker; "there's the house, gintlemen. You
see it there, yondher, forenint you, at the bottom of the sthreet, wid
the light in the winddy; or, stay, shure it's mysilf id think little of
runnin' down wid you, poor crathurs! for 'tis tirt and wairy yez must be
afther the road."--"That's an honest fellow," said several of the
dust-covered soldiers; and away scampered Ned Flynn, with all the men of
war following close at his heels.
Mr. Consadine, the billet-master, was, as may be supposed, a person of
some, and on such occasions as the present, of no small consideration
in such a place as Fermoy. He was of a portly build, and of a grave
and slow movement, suited at once to his importance and to his size.
Three inches of fair linen were at all times visible between his
waistband and waistcoat. His breeches-pockets were never buttoned;
and, scorning to conceal the bull-like proportions of his chest and
neck, his shirt-collar was generally open, as he wore no cravat; and a
flaxen bob-wig commonly sat fairly on his head, and squarely on his
forehead. Such, then, was Mr. Consadine, billet-master-general and
barony sub-constable, who was now just getting to the end of his
eighth tumbler, in company with the proctor, who at that moment had
begun to talk of coming to something like a fair settlement about his
tithes, when Ned Flynn knocked.
"See who's at the door, Nilly," said the eldest Miss Consadine, raising
her voice, and calling to the barefooted servant girl. "'Tis the sogers,
sir, is come!" cried Nelly, running back into the room without opening
the door. "I hear the jinketin of their swoords and bagnets on the
pavin'-stones."--"Divil welcome them at this hour o' the night," said
Mr. Consadine, taking up the candle, and moving off to the room on the
opposite side of the hall, which served him for an office.
Mr. Consadine's own pen, and that of his son Tom were now in full
employment. The officers were sent to the inn; the sergeants,
corporals, etc., were billeted on those who were on indifferent terms
with Mr. Consadine; for, like a worthy man as he was, he leaned as
light as he could on his friends. The soldiers had nearly all departed
for their quarters, when one poor fellow, who had fallen asleep,
leaning on his musket against the wall, was awakened by the silence,
and starting up, he went over to the table at which Mr. Consadine was
seated, hoping his worship would give him a good billet. "A good
billet, my lad," said the billet-master-general, "that you shall have,
and on the biggest house in the whole place. Do you hear, Tom! make
out a billet for this honest man upon Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna." "On
Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna!" said Tom, with a look of amazement. "Yes,
to be sure, on Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna--the great Barry!" replied
his father, giving a nod. "Isn't he said to keep the grandest house in
this part of the counthry?--or stay, Tom, jist hand me over the paper,
and I'll write the billet myself."
The billet was made out accordingly; the sand glittered on the
signature and broad flourishes of Mr. Consadine, and the weary
grenadier received it with becoming gratitude and thanks. Taking up
his knapsack and firelock, he left the office, and Mr. Consadine
waddled back to the proctor to chuckle over the trick he had played on
the soldier, and to laugh at the idea of his search after Barry of
Cairn Thierna's house. Truly had he said no house could vie in
capacity with Mr. Barry's; for like Allan A-Dale's, its roof was
The blue vault of Heaven, with its crescent so pale.
Barry of Cairn Thierna was one of the chieftains who, of old, lorded
it over the barony of Barrymore, and for some reason or other, he had
become enchanted on the mountain of Cairn Thierna, where he was known
to live in great state, and was often seen by the belated peasant.
Mr. Consadine had informed the soldier that Mr. Barry lived a little way
out of the town, on the Cork road; so the poor fellow trudged along for
some time with eyes right and eyes left, looking for the great house;
but nothing could he see only the dark mountain of Cairn Thierna before
him, and an odd cabin or two on the road-side. At last he met a man, of
whom he asked the way to Mr. Barry's. "To Mr. Barry's?" said the man;
"what Barry is it you want?" "I can't say exactly in the dark," returned
the soldier. "Mr. What's-his-name, the billet-master, has given me the
direction on my billet; but he said it was a large house, and I think he
called him the great Mr. Barry." "Why, sure, it wouldn't be the great
Barry of Cairn Thierna you're asking after?" "Aye," said the soldier,
"Cairn Thierna--that's the place. Can you tell me where it is?" "Cairn
Thierna!" repeated the man--"Barry of Cairn Thierna! I'll show you the
way, and welcome; but it's the first time in all my born days that ever
I h'ard of a soger bein' billeted on Barry of Cairn Thierna. 'Tis a
quare thing, anyhow, for ould Dick Consadin to be sindin' you up there,"
continued he; "but you see that big mountain before you--that's Cairn
Thierna. Any one will show you Mr. Barry's when you get to the top of
it, up to the big hape of stones."
The weary soldier gave a sigh as he walked forwards toward the
mountain; but he had not proceeded far when he heard the clatter of a
horse coming along the road after him, and, turning his head round, he
saw a dark figure rapidly approaching. A tall gentleman, richly
dressed, and mounted on a noble gray horse, was soon at his side, when
the rider pulled up, and the soldier repeated his inquiry after Mr.
Barry of Cairn Thierna. "Why, I'm Barry of Cairn Thierna, myself,"
said the gentleman, "and pray what's your business with me, friend."
"I have got a billet on your house, sir," replied the soldier, "from
the billet-master of Fermoy." "Did you, indeed," said Mr. Barry;
"well, then, it is not very far off; follow me and you shall be well
taken care of, depend upon it."
He turned off the road, and led his horse up the steep side of the
mountain, followed by the soldier, who was astonished at seeing the
horse proceed with so little difficulty, where _he_ was obliged to
scramble up, and could hardly find or keep his footing. When they got
to the top, there was a house, sure enough, far beyond any house in
Fermoy. It was three stories high, with fine windows, and all lighted
up within, as if it was full of grand company. There was a hall-door,
too, with a flight of stone steps before it, at which Mr. Barry
dismounted, and the door was opened to him by a servant-man, who took
his horse round to the stable. Mr. Barry, as he stood at the door,
desired the soldier to walk in, and, instead of sending him down to
the kitchen, as any other gentleman would have done, brought him into
the parlour, and desired to see his billet. "Ay," said Mr. Barry,
looking at it and smiling, "I know Dick Consadine well--he's a merry
fellow, no doubt, and, if I mistake not, has got some capital good
cows down on the inch-field of Carrickabrick; a sirloin of beef would
be no bad thing for supper, my man, eh?"
Mr. Barry then called out to some of his attendants, and desired them
to lay the cloth, and make all ready, which was no sooner done than a
smoking sirloin of beef was placed before them. "Sit down, now, my
honest fellow," said Mr. Barry, "you must be hungry after your long
day's march." The soldier with a profusion of thanks for such
hospitality, and acknowledgments for such condescension, sat down and
made, as might be expected, an excellent supper; Mr. Barry never
letting his jaws rest for want of helping until he was fairly unable
to eat more. Then the boiling water was brought in, and such a jug of
whiskey punch as was made! Take my word for it,--it did not, like
honest Robin Craig's, require to be hung out on the bush to let the
water drain out of it.
They sat together a long time, talking over the punch, and the fire
was so good, and Mr. Barry himself was so free a gentleman, and had
such fine conversation about everything in the world, far or near,
that the soldier never felt the night going over him. At last Mr.
Barry stood up, saying it was a rule with him that every one in his
house should be in bed by twelve o'clock, "And," said he, pointing to
a bundle which lay in one corner of the room, "take that to bed with
you, it's the hide of the cow I had killed for your supper; give it to
the billet-master when you go back to Fermoy, in the morning, and tell
him that Barry of Cairn Thierna sent it to him. He will soon
understand what it means, I promise you; so, good night, my brave
fellow; I wish you a comfortable sleep and every good fortune; but I
must be off and away out of this long before you are stirring." The
soldier gratefully returned his host's good wishes, and went off to
the room which was shown him, without claiming, as every one knows he
had a right to do, the second best bed in the house.
Next morning the sun awoke him. He was lying on the broad of his back,
and the skylark was singing over him in the beautiful blue sky, and
the bee was humming close to his ear among the heath. He rubbed his
eyes; nothing did he see but the dear sky, with two or three light
morning clouds floating away. Mr. Barry's fine house and soft feather
bed had melted into air, and he found himself stretched on the side of
Cairn Thierna, buried in the heath, with the cowhide which had been
given him, rolled up under his head for a pillow.[604]
"Well," said he, "this bates cockfighting, any how! Didn't I spind the
plisantest night I iver spint in my life with Mr. Barry last night?
And what in the world has becom' of the house, and the hall door with
the steps, and the very bed that was undher me?" He stood up. Not a
vestige of a house or any thing like one, but the rude heap of stones
on the top of the mountain, could he see; and ever so far off lay the
Blackwater, glittering with the morning sun, and the little quiet
village of Fermoy on its banks, from whose chimneys white wreaths of
smoke were beginning to rise upwards into the sky. Throwing the
cowhide over his shoulder, he descended, not without some difficulty,
the steep side of the mountain, up which Mr. Barry had led his horse
the preceding night with so much ease; and he proceeded along the
road, pondering on what had befallen him.
When he reached Fermoy, he went straight to Mr. Consadine's, and asked
to see him. "Well, my gay fellow," said the official Mr. Consadine,
recognising, at a glance, the soldier; "what sort of an entertainment
did you meet with from Barry of Cairn Thierna?" "The best of good
thratement, sir," replied the soldier; "and well did he spake of you,
and he disired me to give you this cowhide as a token to remimber him
by." "Many thanks to Mr. Barry for his generosity," said the
billet-master, making a low bow, in mock solemnity; "many thanks
indeed, and a right good skin it is, wherever he got it."
Mr. Consadine had scarcely finished the sentence, when he saw his
cow-boy running up the street, shouting and crying aloud, that the
best cow in the Inch-field was lost and gone, and nobody knew what had
become of her, or could give the least tidings of her.
The soldier had spread out the skin on the ground for Mr. Consadine to
see it; and the cow-boy looking at it, exclaimed--"That is her hide,
wherever she is; I'd take my Bible oath to the two small white spots,
with the glossy black about thim; and there's the very place where she
rubbed the hair off her shouldher last Martinmas." Then clapping his
hands together, he literally sang "the tune the old cow died of." This
lamentation was stopped short by Mr. Consadine: "There is no manner of
doubt about it," said he. "It was Barry that kilt my best cow, and all
he has left me is the hide o' the poor baste to comfort myself with;
but it will be a warnin' to Dick Consadine, for the rest of his life,
nivir again to play off his thricks upon thravellers."
_Aileen a Roon,_
(ELLEN MY LOVE.)
Carrol O'Daly is the Lochinvar of Ireland. He and Ellen Cavanagh were
intimate from childhood. The result was love; but Ellen's father
insisted on her marrying a wealthier suitor. On the wedding-night Carrol
came disguised as a harper, and played and sung this air, which he had
composed for the occasion. Ellen's tenderness revived in full force; she
contrived to make her father, the bridegroom, and the guests drink to
excess, and by morning she and Carrol were beyond pursuit.
The following lines were written one evening to gratify a lady who
wished to have the writer's idea of what Carrol might have sung. The
air is generally known under the name of Robin Adair:--
What are the joys wealth and honours bestow?
Do they endure like true love's steady glow?
Shadows of vanity,
Mists of the summer sky,
Soon they disperse and fly,
Aileen a roon!
Time was when Aileen tripped light as the fawn,
Spying young Carrol approach in the dawn,
Ere the sun's early beam
Glittered on lake and stream,--
Oh! that was bliss supreme,
Aileen a roon!
Or when mild even's star beamed in the west,
Bringing to nature the season of rest--
At that sweet hour to rove,
Down by yon spreading grove,
Breathing forth vows of love,
Aileen a roon!
Aileen forgets, but her Carrol more true,
As these past scenes memory brings to his view.
Heaves many a heavy sigh,
Breaking his heart is nigh--
And canst thou let him die?
Aileen a roon!
_Rousseau's Dream._
These verses are adapted to the well-known air. They were suggested by
a passage from Rousseau's works, quoted by Alison in his Essay on
Taste. Though real names are mentioned, the scenery and subject are
purely ideal.
Calmly at eve shone the sun o'er Lake Leman,
Bright in his beam lay the watery expanse,
Softly the white sails reflected his gleaming,
Groves, banks, and trees their slow shadows advance.
Cool from the mountains the summer-gale breathed,
Laden with fragrance the lake it came o'er;
Leman, exulting, danced joyous beneath it,
Light crisped waves gently roll to the shore.
At that soft hour on the blue Leman rowing,
Slowly a sage urged his bark by a grove,
Silently musing, his lofty mind glowing,
Viewing earth's pomp and the glories above
As o'er the lake the long shadows extended,
Whispering the breeze, lulled each sense to repose;
Calm he reclined, and as slumber descended,
Visions of bliss to his fancy arose.
Heaven to his view seemed arrayed in new glory,
Earth breathed forth fragrance and basked in the ray
Clad in loose raiment, more white than the hoary
Front of Mont Blanc, came a son of the day.
Lightly his wand o'er the slumberer extending,
While with new joy laughed the earth, sky, and lake;
Love in his accents with soft pity blending,
Shedding content, thus the bright vision spake:--
"Hither I come, from my cloud-crowned station,
Touched with thy grief, to shed balm o'er thy mind!
I am the Spirit to whom, at creation,
Charge was by Heaven o'er this region assigned.
List to my accents, thou hunted by malice!
Let what I utter sink deep in thy breast:
Fly from mankind, to the lakes, hills, and valleys,
Thus, thus alone, shall thy spirit find rest.
"But if again to the world thou now fliest,
Thou should return, and again meet thy foes,
Think on this hour, when for comfort thou sighest,
And the bright scene will dispel all thy woes."
Gone was the vision: eve's star now was glancing,
Cold came the breeze o'er the blue curling stream;
Waked from his slumber, his heart with joy dancing,
Homeward he turned, and still mused on his dream.
_Alexander Selkirk's Dream._
COMPOSED ONE DAY WHEN CONFINED TO BED BY A COLD
AND UNABLE TO READ.
O'er the isle of Juan Fernandez
Cooling shades of evening spread,
While upon the peaks of Andes
Still the tints of day were shed.
From the sea-beat shore returning
Homeward hied the lonely man,
O'er his cheerless fortune mourning,
As through past days memory ran.
Soon his brief repast was ended
And he sought his lowly bed;
Balmy slumber there descended,
Shedding influence o'er his head.
Then a vision full of gladness
Came, sent forth by Him supreme
Who his suffering servants' sadness
Oft dispelleth in a dream.
* * * * *
In his view the lively dream sets
Hills and vales in verdure bright;
Where the gaily-prattling streamlets
Sparkle in the morning-light.
Hark! the holy bell is swinging,
Calling to the house of prayer;
Loud resounds the solemn ringing
Through the still and balmy air.
Youths and maids from glen and mountain
Hasten at the hallowed sound,
Old men rest by shady fountain,
Children lay them on the ground.
Now the pious throng is streaming
Through the temple's portal low;
Rapture in each face is beaming
Pure devotion's genuine glow.
Fervently the hoary pastor,
Humbly bent before his God,
Supplicates their heavenly Master
Them to lead on Sion's road;
Owns that all have widely erred
From the true, the narrow way,
That with Him we have no merit,
And no claim of right can lay.
Loud then rise in choral measure
Hymns of gratitude and praise,
As, inspired with solemn pleasure,
Unto Heaven their strains they raise.
Now the grave discourse beginneth,
Which, ungraced by rhetoric's arts,
Quick the rapt attention winneth,
While it glorious truths imparts;
While it tells how kind is Heaven
To the race of him who fell;
How of old the Son was given
To redeem from pains of hell;
How the Holy Spirit abideth
In their hearts that hear his call;
How our God for all provideth,
How His mercy's over all;
How, beyond the grave extending,
Regions lie of endless bliss;
How our thoughts on that world bending,
We should careless be of this.
Once again the raised hymn pealeth
Notes of joy and jubilee,
Praising Him who truth revealeth,
Dweller of Eternity!
* * * * *
Night's dim shades were now retreating,
Over Andes rose the day,
On the hills the kids' loud bleating
Lingering slumber chased away.
Birds their merry notes were singing,
Joyous at the approach of morn--
Morn that, light and fragrance flinging,
Earth doth cherish and adorn.
Waked by Nature's general chorus
Selkirk quits his lonely couch,
While o'er heaven run colours glorious,
Heralding the sun's approach.
Still the vision hovers o'er him,
Still the heavenly strains he hears,
Setting those bright realms before him
Where are wiped away all tears.
All this vain and transitory
State of mankind here on earth,
Weighed with that exceeding glory,
Now he deems as nothing worth.
Low he bends in adoration,
As the sun ascends the sky;
Doubt and fear and lamentation
With the night's last shadows fly.
_A Moonlight Scene_,
CONCEIVED AND COMMENCED WHEN PASSING OVER PUTNEY BRIDGE ON
A FINE MOONLIGHT NIGHT IN SUMMER.
The moonbeams on the lake are glancing,
The nimble bark is now advancing,
That for this grove is bound.
Ye gentle clouds, ah! hear a lover,
And hasten not the moon to cover
And darkness pour around.
Doth fancy sport, or do I hear her,
As nearer still she comes and nearer,
Cutting the billows bright?--
How still! scarce even a light breeze flying!
Earth, water, air, at peace are lying
Beneath the calm moonlight.
My heart beats high, my soul rejoices,
Methinks I hear their merry voices--
She soon will reach the shore.--
Ah me! my hopes, my hopes are failing,
Yon sable cloud is onwards sailing--
The moon it covers o'er.
Now o'er the lake they dubious wander,
And on some part remote may strand her,
Unless they aid obtain,--
I'll wave a signal from the summit
Of yon high bank, and haply from it
Some guidance they may gain.
The cloud moves on, the moonlight beameth,
And o'er the lovely lady streameth,
Upon her lofty stand.
With joyful shout the boatmen greet her,
Her anxious lover hastes to meet her,
And eager springs to land.
_Lines Written in a Lady's Album._
In those blest days, when free from care
And happy as the birds in air,
I roamed the hills and dales,
By purling rills oft passed the day,
Or on green banks recumbent lay,
Listening the shepherds' tales,
My fancy, rising on the wing,
Would visions fair before me bring,
Of castles high, and towers,
With knights in radiant panoply,
And ladies of the beaming eye,
Within their fragrant bowers;
Or lead me thence away to shades
Of woods, and show me, in the glades,
The cottages serene,
Where Peace dwelt with Contend, among
The happy, gay Arcadian throng
That tenanted the scene.
But whether cot or tower arose
In vision, at the dawn or close
Of summer-days, to me,
The lovely form of woman still
Shone bright by dale, by mead, by rill,
Amid my extacy.
I saw her robed in every grace
With youth, with loveliness of face,
And virtue's gentle eye;
And from her tongue heard accents fall,
That would the rudest heart enthral,
And raise emotions high.
But like the Eastern prince, who loved
The pictured form of one that moved
In life full many a year
Ere he beheld the light, I deemed
The lovely form of which I dreamed
Would ne'er to me appear.
And years came on, and years went by,
And yet I never found me nigh
My youthful vision bright.
I said,--I might as well, I ween,
Expect to see the Fairy-queen
Descend, to bless my sight.
But often, when we hope it least,
And when our search has well nigh ceased,
Good fortune will befall:
So I one evening saw a maid,
Who every grace and charm displayed
That decked my _Ideal_.
Her portrait here I need not show.
For, reader, thou must surely know
That peerless, gentle maid:
To her these lines I consecrate;
And if she smiles I'll deem, elate,
My toil far overpaid.
_To Amanda._
[These are the verses quoted in the Introduction to the "Tales and
Popular Fictions." The author was very young when he wrote them;
and Amanda was, like Beatrice and Laura, a mere _donna di mente_,
having no real existence.]
As when a storm in vernal skies
The face of day doth stain,
And o'er the smiling landscape flies,
With mist and drizzling rain;
If chance the sun look through the shower
O'er flowery hill and dale,
Reviving Nature owns his power,
And softly sighs the gale:
So when, by anxious thoughts oppressed,
My soul sinks in despair,
When smiling hope deserts my breast,
And all is darkness there;
If chance Amanda's form appear,
The gloom is chased away,
My soul once more her soft smiles cheer,
And joy resumes his sway.
Then, dear Amanda, since thy smile
Has power all gloom to charm,
Oh! ever thus my cares beguile,
And guard my soul from harm.
Let Hymen's bands our fates unite,
What bliss may then be ours!--
Our days will glide, like streamlets bright,
O'erhung with fragrant flowers.
_Lines_,
WRITTEN AT HOME IN THE SPRING OF 1842.
Fair Tibur, once the Muses' home,
Before us lay; around
Was spread the plain which mighty Rome
Oft saw with victory crowned.
The sun rode high, the sky was clear,
The lark poured forth his strain,
And flowers, the firstlings of the year,
Shed fragrance o'er the plain.
A gentle lady turned on me
Her bright expressive eyes,
And bade the flame of poesy
Within my bosom rise.
'Twas then I felt, I felt, alas!
How Time has dealt with me,
And how the rays of fancy pass,
And vanish utterly.
For time has been when such a view
And mandate of the fair,
With images of brightest hue,
Had fill'd the land and air:
While now I strive, and strive in vain,
To twine poetic flowers,
Since from me Time away has ta'en
Imagination's powers.
Then lady, be thou gentle still,
Let pity sway thy breast;
Accept for deeds the fervent will
To honour thy behest.
_A Farewell._
Farewell! farewell! the parting hour
Is come, and I must leave thee!
Oh! ne'er may aught approach thy bower
That might of bliss bereave thee!
But ever a perennial rill
Of joy, so brightly flowing,
Keep each fair thought in fragrance still
Within thy pure mind blowing.
For life all charm had lost for me,
My thoughts were only sadness,
When fortune led me unto thee
To taste once more of gladness.--
I've seen the sullen shades of night
Fair nature's face concealing,
And marked how scattered rays of light
Came morn's approach revealing.
The light increased, the orb of day
Clomb to the mountain's summit;
And vale and plain, and stream and bay,
Drew life and lustre from it.
And as it towered in majesty,
Light all around it shedding,
It seemed a monarch, seated high,
Bliss through his realms wide spreading.
All nature joyed; I felt my heart
Distend, and fill with pleasure;
For heavenly light and warmth impart
A bliss we cannot measure.
This glorious sun to me art thou,
Whose light all gloom dispelleth,
Before whose majesty I bow
When he his power revealeth.
Thy golden locks, thine eyes so blue,
Thy smile so sweetly playing,
Were those first shafts of light that flew,
The gloom of night warraying.
But when, more intimately known,
I found not only beauty,
But genius, taste, and truth, thine own,
Combined with filial duty:
Then rose the sun, o'er all my soul
In full effulgence beaming,
And tides of joy began to roll
Beneath his radiance gleaming.--
Time still his noiseless course pursues
With unremitting vigour,
And lovely Spring each year renews
The waste of Winter's rigour.
Were mine the power, thus, like Time,
To wake again life's flowers,
And days recall of youthful prime
Passed in the Muses' bowers;
Then, lovely maiden! fancy-free,
Rich in each mental treasure,
In me thou wouldst a votary see--
Thy will would be my pleasure.
But while such bliss might not be mine,
A friendship pure and holy
I offered at the hallowed shrine,
To which my heart turned solely.--
When distant from thee many a mile,
High waves between us swelling,
I'll think upon thy lovely smile,
Of pure emotion telling.
The sky will show me thy blue eye;
The whispering breeze of even
Recall that voice, whose melody
Oft lapped my soul in heaven!
The sinking sun thy ringlets' gold
Will show; but memory only
The treasures of thy mind unfold
To me when musing lonely.
Oh! may I hope that memory,
That power for ever changing,
Will make thee sometimes think on me,
O'er distant mountains ranging?
Say me not nay; let Fancy cheat
My soul with bland illusion;
And let not Doubt my vision sweet
Dispel by rude intrusion.
_Verses_,
WRITTEN AT BATH IN 1840, FOR A LITTLE BOY WHO KEPT AN ALBUM, AND WAS
A GREAT ADMIRER OF ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.
Had the kind Muse, young friend, on me
Her pleasing gifts bestowed,
And taught to tread of poesy
The smooth and flowery road;
Then should the deeds of Robin Hood,
And Little John, so bold,
And of the Friar, stout and good,
In numbers high be told.
The merry greenwood should resound
With feats of archery,
And antlered deer along should bound
So light and gracefully!
But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decrees
To struggle I must cease;
I only can write histories
Of England, Rome, and Greece.
_Father Cuddy's Song._
IN THE LEGEND OF CLOUGH NA CUDDY.
Quam pulchra sunt ova,
Cum alba et nova
In stabulo scite leguntur;
Et à Margery bella,
Quæ festiva puella!
Pinguis lardi cum frustis coquuntur.
Ut belles in prato
Aprico et lato
Sub sole tam læte renident,
Ova tosta, in mensa
Mappa bene extensa,
Nitidissima lance consident.
TRANSLATION.
Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat,
When so white and so sweet
From under the manger they're taken,
And by fair Margery,
Och! 'tis she's full of glee,
They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.
Just like daisies all spread
O'er a broad sunny mead,
In the sunbeams so beauteously shining,
Are fried eggs fair displayed
On a dish, when we've laid
The cloth and are thinking of dining.
_The Praises of Mazenderân._
FROM THE SHÂH-NÂMEH OF FERDOUSEE.
[The object of this version was to give a correct idea of the
animated anapæstic measure in which the Shâh-Nâmeh is written. Our
knowledge of Persian was extremely slight; but a friendly
Orientalist gave us a faithful line-for-line translation, which we
versified, and he and Ram Mohun Roy then compared our version with
the original.]
His hand from the lute hath its melody drawn,
And thus rose the song of Mazenderân:--
May Mazenderân, the land of my birth,
Its hills and its dales, be e'er famed o'er the earth:
For evermore blooms in its gardens the rose,
On its hills nods the tulip, the hyacinth blows;
Its air ever fragrant, its earth flourishing,
Cold or heat is not felt,--'tis perpetual spring.
The nightingale's lays in the gardens resound;
On the sides of the mountains the stately deer bound,
In search evermore of their pastime and food;
With fragrance and colour each season's bedewed;
Its streams of rose-water unceasingly roll,
Whose perfume doth gladness diffuse o'er the soul.
In November, December, and January,
Full of tulips the ground thou mayest everywhere see;
The springs, unexhausted, flow all through the year;
The hawk at his chase everywhere doth appear.
The region of bliss is adorned all o'er
With dinars, with rich stuffs, and with all costly store;
The idol-adorers with fine gold are crowned,
And girdles of gold gird the heroes renowned.
Whoe'er hath not dwelt in that region so bright,
His soul knows no pleasure, his heart no delight.
FOOTNOTES:
[599] As we have above given an etymon of _cobweb_, we will here
repeat our note on the word _gossamer_ in the Fairy Legends.
"Gossamers, Johnson says, are the long white cobwebs which fly in the
air in calm sunny weather, and he derives the word from the Low Latin
_gossapium_. This is altogether unsatisfactory. The gossamers are the
cobwebs which may be seen, particularly of a still autumnal morning,
in such numbers on the furze-bushes, and which are raised by the wind
and floated through the air, as thus exquisitely pictured by Browne in
his Britannia's Pastorals (ii. 2),
The milk-white gossamers not upwards snowed.
Every lover of nature must have observed and admired the beautiful
appearance of the gossamers in the early morning, when covered with
dew-drops, which, like prisms, separate the rays of light, and shoot
the blue, red, yellow, and other colours of the _spectrum_, in
brilliant confusion. Of King Oberon we are told--
A riche mantle he did wear,
Made of tinsel gossamer,
Bestrew'd over with a few
Diamond drops of morning dew.
A much more probable origin of _gossamer_ than that proposed by
Johnson is suggested by what has been now stated. _Gossamer_ is, we
think, a corruption of _gorse_, or _goss samyt_, i. e. the _samyt_, or
finely-woven silken web that lies on the _gorse_ or furze. Voss, in a
note on his Luise (iii. 17), says that the popular belief in Germany
is, that the gossamers are woven by the Dwarfs.
[600] In the notes on this story Mr. Croker gives the following
letter:--
"The accuracy of the following story I can vouch for, having heard
it told several times by the person who saw the circumstances.
"About twenty years back, William Cody, churn-boy to a person
near Cork, had, after finishing his day's work, to go through six
or eight fields to his own house, about twelve o'clock at night.
He was passing alongside of the ditch of a large field, and
coming near a quarry, he heard a great cracking of whips on the
other side. He went on to a gap in the same ditch, and out rode a
little horseman, dressed in green, and mounted in the best
manner, who put a whip to his breast, and made him stop until
several hundred horsemen, all dressed alike, rode out of the gap
at full speed, and swept round a glen. When the last horseman was
clear off, the sentinel clapt spurs to his horse, gave three
cracks of his whip, and was out of sight in a second.
"The person would swear to the truth of the above, as he was
quite sober and sensible at the time. The place had always before
the name of being very _airy_ [the Scottish _eirie_].
"_Royal Cork Institution_, P. BATH.
_June 3, 1825._"
[601] An abridgment of _Leprechaun_, see p. 371.
[602] This wonderful tune is, we fear, a transference we made from
Scandinavia. See above, p. 79.
[603] We must here make an honest confession. This story had no
foundation but the German legend in p. 259. All that is not to be
found there is our own pure invention. Yet we afterwards found that it
was well-known on the coast of Cork and Wicklow. "But," said one of
our informants, "It was things like flower-pots he kept them in." So
faithful is popular tradition in these matters! In this and the
following tale there are some traits by another hand which we are now
unable to discriminate.
[604] It is not very likely that the inventor of this legend knew
anything about the Amadigi of B. Tasso, yet in that poem we meet this
circumstance more than once. In c. ii., when night falls on the young
knight Alidoro, in the open country, he finds a pavilion pitched
beside a fountain, with lights in it, and hears a voice which invites
him to enter it. He there sups and goes to sleep in a rich bed, and on
awaking in the morning (iii. 38) finds himself lying in the open air.
Another time (c. viii) he comes to a fair inn, in a wild region, where
he is entertained and his wounds are dressed by a gentle damsel, and
on awaking in the morning he finds himself lying under a tree. The
tent and inn were the work of his protectress, the Fairy Silvana.
Another Fairy, Argea, entertains (c. xxxiii.) a king, queen, knight
and ladies, in a stately palace. At night they retire to magnificent
chambers, and in the morning they find themselves lying in a mead,
some under trees, others on the sides of a stream, with more of the
beauties of the ladies displayed than they could have desired.
INDEX.
The words printed in _Italics_ are those whose origin or meaning
is explained. The word "Fairy" is inclusive of all similar beings.
Albrich, 206.
Alfar, 64.
_Alguacil_, 464.
Amadigi, L', 454.
Apsaresas, 510.
Bakhna Rakhna, 495.
Barguest, 306, 310.
Berserkers, 74.
Boggart, 307.
Bogles, 316, 351.
_Booby_, 464.
_Boy_, 316.
Brownie, 171, 296, 357, 395.
_Bug_, 318.
_Bugaboo_, 316.
_Bugbear_, 316.
_Bullbeggar_, 316.
_Calcar_, 291.
_Cauchemare_, 291.
Cauld Lad of Hilton, 296.
Cluricaun, 371.
_Cobweb_, 318.
Colepexy, 305.
Colt-Pixy, 305.
Crions, 440.
Cross, 87, 134, 136, 276, 375, 391.
Courils, 441.
Changelings, 125, 166, 227, 300, 355, 365, 393, 398, 436, 471, 473,
521.
Dames Blanches, 474.
Dame du Lac, 31.
Daoine Shi', 384.
Deevs, 15.
_Deuce_, 438.
Drac, 465.
Duende, 462, 464.
Duergar, 66.
Duscii, 438.
Dwarfs, 94, 157, 174, 206, 264.
Eddas, 60.
Elberich, 208.
Elf-arrow, 352.
Elf-bore, 307.
Elf-queen, 331.
Elves, 78, 281.
Eugel, 207.
_Fada_, 5.
Fadas, 468.
_Fairy_, 4.
Fairy-bells, 363, 412.
Fairy-butter, 309.
Fairy-cup, 88, 109, 237, 283, 284, 399.
Fairy-departure, 127, 223, 257, 273, 356.
Fairy-labour, 122, 261, 275, 301, 311, 388, 488.
Fairy-mushrooms, 303.
Fairy-origin, 75, 147, 150, 213, 265, 363, 385, 412, 432, 464.
Fairy-riding, 355, 384, 401, 414, 520.
Fairy-song, 364, 438, 461.
Fairy-wife, 19, 108, 163, 169, 370, 409, 450, 458, 480, 485.
Fairy-land, 44.
Faerie Queene, 56.
Fairies, 28, 290, 350, 363, 385, 397, 412.
Farisees, 306.
Fary, 310.
_Fata_, 5.
Fate, 451.
Fear Dearg, 369.
Fées, 472.
Fosse-Grim, 152.
Friar Rush, 347.
Gallicenæ, 420.
Gandharvas, 510.
Gobelins, 476.
Goldemar, 256.
Good People, 363, 397, 495.
Gorics, 440.
_Gossamer_, 513.
Grant, 286.
_Guancia_, 464.
Guid Neighbours, 164, 351.
Habundia, 474.
_Hada_, 5.
Hadas, 469.
_Hag_, 290, 332.
_Haggard_, 318.
Havfrue, 152.
Havmand, 152.
_Hel-Keplein_, 207.
Hinzelmann, 240.
Hobgoblin, 317.
Hödekin, 255.
Holger Danske, 129.
House-spirit, 139, 163, 171, 239, 265, 287, 291, 296, 307, 357, 369,
395, 407, 449, 462, 468, 488.
_Housle-egg_, 291.
Huldrafolk, 79.
Hyldemoer, 94.
Incubo, 449.
Iron, 25, 148, 413, 488.
Jean de la Boliéta, 265.
Jinn, 25.
Jinnistân, 16.
Kâf, 15.
Kelpie, 360, 385.
Kit-wi-the-Canstick, 291.
Kleine Volk, 216.
Klintekonger. 91.
Kobold, 239.
Korr, 431.
Korred, 431.
Korrig, 431.
Korrigan, 420, 431.
Lancelot du Lac, 31.
Lars, 448.
Laurin, 207.
Leprechaun, 371.
_Lob_, 318.
_Lob's pound_, 319.
_Lubber_, 319.
Lubin, 478.
Lubrican, 372.
Luridan, 172.
Lutin, 476.
Luck of Eden Hall, 292.
Mab, 331, 476.
Maçieh, 494.
Mazikeen, 497.
Melusina, 479.
Mermaids, 370, 433, 450.
Merrow, 370, 527.
Miölner, 70.
Monaciello, 449.
_Monkey_, 464.
Morgan, 433.
Morgana, 5.
Morgue la Faée, 42, 46.
Moss-people, 230.
Napf-Hans, 265.
Neck, 148, 178, 488.
Neptunes, 285.
Nickur, 162, 163.
_Ninny_, 464.
Nisse, 139.
Nix, 258.
Nökke, 148.
Nornir, 64.
Nymphs, 444.
_Oaf_, 329.
Oberon, 38, 289, 325.
Oennereeske, 231.
Ogier le Danois, 46.
Oldenburg Horn, 237.
Otnit, 208.
_Ouph_, 329.
_Pawkey_, 316.
Pentamerone, Il, 455.
Peries, 15.
Pexy, 305.
Phynnoderree, 402.
Picktree Brag, 310.
Pisachas, 510.
Pisgies, 298.
Pixies, 298.
_Pixy-led_, 300.
Poake, 317.
Pooka, 371.
Portunes, 285.
Pouke, 314.
_Proud_, 103.
Puck, 291, 314.
_Pucker_, 464.
_Puckfist_, 317.
Puckle, 316.
Pug, 315.
Puk, 233.
Pwcca, 418.
Robin Goodfellow, 287, 317.
Robin Hood, 318.
Runes, 98.
Rusalki, 491.
St. Oluf, 137.
_St. Peter's suster_, 319.
Scogsfru, 153.
Scrat, Schrat, Schretel, 229.
Seemurgh, 17.
Shedeem, 497.
Shellycoat, 360.
Shian, 384.
Shinseën, 511.
Shoopiltie, 171.
Skidbladni, 68.
_Spoorn_, 291.
Steel, _see Iron_.
_Stout_, 103.
Stille Volk, 216.
Strömkarl, 152.
Svend Fælling, 88, 128.
Similar Legends,--(i.) 19, 163, 169, 370. (ii.) 88, 109, 237, 283,
284, 399. (iii.) 115, 366, 398. (iv.) 116, 232.
(v.) 121, 409, 450, 458, 480, 485. (vi.) 122, 261,
275, 301, 311, 388. (vii.) 124, 260. (viii.) 124,
386, 387, 415. (ix.) 127, 223, 257, 273, 356.
(x.) 140, 307, 369, 491. (xi.) 149, 365, 385.
(xii.) 220, 226, 289, 295, 352, 389. (xiii.) 228,
261, 287, 289, 299, 358, 395, 403. (xiv.) 302, 309,
311, 312, 353, 466. (xv.) 304, 438, 461. (xvi.) 313,
396, 477, 489.
_Take_, 338.
Tangie, 173.
_Tarnkappe_, 207.
Tirfing, 72.
Titania, 325.
Tomte, 139, 147.
Trasgo, 462, 464.
Trolls, 94, 102.
Trows, 164.
_Turning coat_, 300.
Tylwyth Têg, 408.
Umskiptinger, 160.
_Urchin_, 319.
Urdar-fount, 64.
Urisk, 396.
Vairies, 305.
Vidhyadharas, 519.
Vilas, 491.
Volmar, 256.
_Wain_, 105.
Water-spirits, 147, 162, 163, 171, 173, 178, 258, 360, 385, 409, 433,
444, 450, 470.
Wicht, Wichtlein, 216, 229.
_Wight_, 216, 319.
Wild-women, 234.
_Wife Paternoster_, 319.
_Witch_, 319.
_Wolf's-fist_, 317.
Yakshas, 510.
Yggdrasil, 64.
Yumboes, 495.
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been fixed throughout.
Old English characters have been replaced with the nearest Latin
equivalent.
Irish Uncial characters have been replaced with the nearest Latin
equivalent.
Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original.
Inconsistent use of opening and closing quotes are as in the original.
Footnote 275: Has no anchor, left as in the original text.
Footnotes 333 and 334: These footnotes were in incorrect order in the
original text. They have been reversed in the new text.